


The Good, Old Fashioned Way

by RedBlazer



Series: From Daddy to Dating in 2 Seconds Flat [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Cock Cages, Come Eating, Daddy Kink, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Feminization, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Prostate Milking, Size Kink, Size Queen Quentin Coldwater, Sub Quentin Coldwater, make this canonical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29738373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBlazer/pseuds/RedBlazer
Summary: Eliot showers him with praise and prizes him apart gently, like wrapping paper he’s planning on saving on Christmas Morning. Margo’s more of a tear into her gifts person, leaving carnage behind all over the floor. He’s beginning to recalibrate to this slower, sweeter reckoning, would really enjoy it if Eliot slapped him while calling him ‘sweetheart’. Do they make a Hallmark card for something like that?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: From Daddy to Dating in 2 Seconds Flat [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155497
Comments: 22
Kudos: 86





	The Good, Old Fashioned Way

**Author's Note:**

> WELL....I guess this is happening

There’s stuff about Eliot that Quentin never expected. He does things the  _ “old fashioned way” _ like making the bed, sweeping the floor, and doing his laundry. Quentin hasn’t put a load in the washer since Alice taught him the cleaning spell her mother used on their laundry back home. It always comes out full of static and he ends up shocking himself on the doorknob on his way out to class in the morning. But thus is the life of a magician, mildly inconvenienced by a spell that saves him a few hours of hauling his stuff to and from the laundry room.

The first night Quentin stays over at Eliot’s place, he spills red wine all over his shirt and pants. Eliot ends up stripping Quentin out of his clothes to put them in the washer before Quentin can really protest or do a few tuts to lift the stain. The clothes Eliot puts him into are a set of comically huge silk pajamas and make Quentin go quiet when they snuggle up in a single corner of Eliot’s massive leather sectional, legs wound together while pretending to watch HGTV which is Eliot’s true obsession. Quentin dozes and Eliot plays with his hair while not so silently judging the choices of others, and Quentin thinks that the only way he could be a worst houseguest would be if he stole Eliot's silk pajamas in the morning. 

Eliot lives in a brownstone in Greenwich Village; he’d explained that he and Margo use it as a showroom to potential clients. It’s magically expanded far past the outside dimensions of the building. There’s a full moroccan tiled steam room and a lap pool in the basement, artificial windows with impossible views of coastlines and misty forests on walls that should be blocked by the buildings next door, and a living room with a sunken conversation pit couch that makes Quentin feel like he’s in a cave, snoozing into the open collar of Eliot’s button down.

It’s only been a few weeks and they’re fully in the honeymoon period of the relationship. Eliot’s been granted a temporary key to the campus so he comes over to Quentin’s most nights with dinner and does shit like hanging up curtains while Quentin’s busy grading assignments, and spanking Quentin over the arm of his couch when he’s  _ not.  _ It helps so much when Quentin can’t seem to focus and there’s a low grade migraine building between his eyes and he’s trying to prepare himself mentally for the trials to begin and half the first year class to be sent home. It’s his third year teaching. He should be used to it by now. But Quentin can’t help but worry where they’ll all land, if his former students will end up scooped up by a hedge coven or just go on to live normal lives. It’s total bullshit but also  _ tradition _ —more bullshit _. _ So having Eliot there to spank that spiral right out of him and then wash his hair as they are squashed together in Quentin’s too-small shower stall has been  _ amazing.  _ Getting to know Eliot is even better, every room of his house is gloriously cluttered and reveals more and more about the man behind the designs.

Quentin wonders if the haphazard, cozy style of the cottage common area might have been Eliot’s doing before he left in his first year. It would explain how the kitchen remained an out of the box IKEA setup, clashing with the rest of the first floor. When Quentin asks, Eliot just smirks mysteriously and tells him he’s not going to claim a project he’s never been totally happy with. He smooths Quentin’s hair back and takes him to bed. Eliot has the biggest bed that Quentin’s ever seen. He plasters his body to Eliot’s in the bed they could easily fit another couple in with room to spare. 

Eliot still won’t fuck him. Not even when Quentin whines into his ear and grinds against his hip and asks as sweetly as he can muster since they’ve been dating for a few weeks now. Eliot made the mistake of letting Quentin nap. Now Quentin’s awake and tender little bubbles of arousal are popping in his chest. He’s getting familiar with Eliot’s body, and is working out the beginning knowledge of what places to touch, which to lick or bite to get him moaning. He craves Eliot’s cock in a way that makes him jittery, and has jerked off just thinking about how good it’ll feel when Eliot’s dick is thrusting inside him too many times to count.

But Eliot keeps saying, “No. Not yet, baby.” Quentin pouts and Eliot chuckles into his ear, a deft hand curling around Quentin’s waist to draw him in closer. Even soft, Eliot’s cock is unmistakable against Quentin’s thigh. “Can I tell you what I really want to do?”

Quentin nods, he’s so easy for Eliot that he’s already getting hard, panting against Eliot’s neck from only a few words. He’s still wrapped up in Eliot’s pajamas, collarbone peeking out where the top’s twisted a little under him while he squirms. Eliot’s naked. He’d put Quentin under the blankets after showing him where to plug in his phone on one of his  _ two _ matching night stands—so fucking fancy—and strolled out of the bathroom nonchalant and gloriously nude moments later. The thatch of Eliot’s chest hair is so close Quentin wants to roll over and rub his face in it.

“Ask me, Q.” Eliot orders with a raised eyebrow.

Quentin heaves a great big sigh, dropping his hand over the one Eliot has curled around his side. He smiles to himself when Eliot catches it, thumb stroking over Eliot’s palm. They haven’t even done an actual scene yet. After a long discussion, they’d mutually decided that it would be better to get to know each other without the added dynamics of dom and sub. That doesn't mean little bits of it don’t pop through occasionally. Honestly, getting a quick spanking at the end of the day is just stress relief. Quentin would like to be told what to do in  _ general,  _ moved and held whenever possible. Eliot’s just as sweet with him as he had been their first night at Margo’s, but slivers of his more dominant personality slip through, and Quentin melts at it every time.

It’s been a long week. The first years are particularly trying. He’s not sure how Eliot can somehow turn his brain off and also send it into overdrive with possibilities. It’s still staggering that he can share this with Eliot and not worry that he’s gonna wake up to Eliot kicking him out for being a needy loser. 

After a long discussion—really a  _ few _ long discussions—about limits and kinks and safewords, Eliot’s got a good idea of what makes Quentin tick. But it goes the other way too. Eliot’s got a nurturing streak a mile wide and a Daddy Kink to match. Quentin’s pretty sure Eliot would gladly have him quit his job and spend his days doing yoga and sending him nudes. That sparks a part of his middle class upbringing that equates being a ‘kept’ man or woman with trading sex for a comfortable lifestyle—being paid to stay pretty and ready for your man to come home. It makes Quentin’s stomach churn like he’s on a rollercoaster and he’s not sure if it’s for a good reason or not.

But it goes the other way too, so Eliot knows full well that prying coherent sentences out of Quentin is like getting blood from a stone. He knows that it leaves Quentin’s head spinning with embarrassment and he  _ loves it.  _ Eliot’s already well versed in how telling Quentin he wants to hear his pretty voice will leave Quentin nothing more than a pile of goo in the shape of a man.

“Tell me what you want to do,” Quentin says.

“Very good, baby,” Eliot praises and kisses him on the cheek. His stubble tickling and scratching Quentin’s skin. “Let me know if you want to stop, yeah?” Eliot whispers against his ear.

“Of course.” Quentin nods, squeezing Eliot’s hand. There’s a time and place for when saying _‘stop’_ all overwhelmed and having the other person keep _going_ truly makes Quentin’s brain bleed out of his ears. But this early on, when they’re getting to know each other, it’s good to be clear.

The bed shifts under them as Eliot rolls his body onto Quentin's, planting his knees over Quentin’s hips.  _ Fuck, _ Eliot’s  _ beautiful _ in the golden glow of his bedside lamp. The covers fall down around his waist when Eliot sits up and Quentin can’t stop staring at Eliot’s dick passively resting against his own pajama clad thigh. He doesn’t know what Eliot has planned, can only watch while Eliot’s deft fingers pluck open the buttons of Quentin’s shirt, leaving it open and Quentin’s nipples pebble in the cool air of the bedroom. Eliot looks down at him the whole time, curls falling over his forehead a little mussed at the end of the day. Quentin can’t stop himself from reaching up and tugging one just a little. Eliot smiles fondly, catching Quentin’s wrist and kissing the palm of his hand.

“Reach up for me,” Eliot says, already guiding Quentin’s hands to wrap around the rungs of his wrought iron headboard. “There we go. Keep them there, baby.” Quentin nods, mouth going dry while Eliot’s hands caress down his arms from the wrists, passing over the thin, delicate skin of his elbows and inner biceps. It makes Quentin’s breath hitch, and he squirms under Eliot’s weight. Eliot’s ass is snugly right above his dick. “Now, now. Be good.” Eliot chides and scooches further back to sit on Quentin’s thighs so Quentin has  _ no friction.  _ He’s a stupidly tall man with somehow the longest legs  _ and  _ torso. “I’ll make you come, you just have to be patient for me.”

“E—please just—tell me. Whatever it is, tell me what you want to do to me before I go fucking crazy,” Quentin pleads in a huff.

_ “Patience,”  _ Eliot singsongs, dropping his lips against Quentin’s chest, holding himself up on his hands with his back curved so Quentin has nothing to rut up against. Bastard. “It’ll be hard not to get distracted by these pretty tits all served up to me though.” Quentin flushes, shaking his head to himself at that  _ word. _ Eliot’s played him perfectly; with his arms up above his head, Quentin’s chest winds up pushed up prominently on display for Eliot to suck open mouthed hickies on the underside of his right pec.

“They’re not—um, not tits.” Quentin practically slurs his words.

Eliot stops to suck sweetly on one of Quentin’s nipples. The drawing pressure of his lips sealed around the bud of Quentin’s nipple makes his balls draw up, his toes curl.

“Don’t know why you’re getting so wound up about it, baby.” Eliot says patronizingly, knowing  _ full well _ why Quentin’s getting wound up that Eliot’s calling his pecs  _ tits. _ Eliot’s a calculated fucker, capable of curating Quentin’s dirtiest fantasies into a reality. Quentin hopes Eliot will show him a bit of mercy  _ but prays he doesn’t.  _ His needy whine is rewarded by Eliot roughly grasping the slight handfuls of Quentin’s chest, giving them a squeeze reminiscent of when Quentin got his hands on a pair of boobs for the first time and came in his pants. “Don’t you like it when I play with you? With your little tits.”

“I-I do.” Quentin huffs out. “It feels so good. But  _ please, El.  _ You’re killing me.”

“It’s been two minutes,” Eliot snorts,  _ “Somehow,  _ I think you’ll live.”

Quentin pouts harder, only stops when Eliot leans up and kisses him sweetly, nibbling on his bottom lip until Quentin gasps and lets him slip his tongue inside of Quentin’s mouth. Eliot twists one of his nipples. Hard. A bright bolt of pain shoots through his chest and Eliot pulls away, with the audacity to look so fucking pleased with himself, while Quentin’s heels kick against the bed.

_ “Fuck _ — _ ” _

“Mmm, you taste so sweet. You’re sweet all over, baby. There isn’t a single part of you I wouldn’t gobble right up.”

Quentin squeaks and slams his eyes closed, hands gripping the headboard tighter. This is just  _ so different _ from how Margo works him over. Eliot showers him with praise and prizes him apart gently, like wrapping paper he’s planning on saving on Christmas Morning. Margo’s more of a tear into her gifts person, leaving carnage behind all over the floor. He’s beginning to recalibrate to this slower, sweeter reckoning, would really enjoy it if Eliot slapped him while calling him  _ ‘sweetheart’. _ Do they make a Hallmark card for something like that?

Eliot spends a long time tormenting Quentin with sucking bites to his nipples, pulling off to blow cold air across them in a way that jolts through Quentin’s nervous system like ice pressed against his flushed skin. Quentin totally loses the plot of what they were supposed to be talking about in the first place. He just lays back and moans, mouth slack and wide open while Eliot entertains himself marking up Quentin’s chest, licking over his  _ armpit _ which makes Quentin hide his face in his shoulder and whine at the ticklish,  _ alien slick _ sensation of Eliot’s tongue. The weird intimacy of it. Eliot just chuckles and sticks a couple fingers in Quentin’s mouth to shut him up while he nibbles down Quentin’s ribs, rubs his scratchy cheek over the untouched skin of his side and the sandpapery pain burns though Quentin till he’s melting into the bed.

“See baby,” Eliot pulls away. Quentin moans and sucks on his fingers, eyes rolling back in his head. Between his legs, his dick is hard and aching. He’s made an utter mess of his underwear and Eliot’s pajama pants with how much precome he’s leaking. He gets so  _ wet.  _ He thinks, blearily, that he could come from this. Margo’s spanked him until he came before so there’s a precedent of Quentin’s body blanking out under heavy stimulation. He should—should warn Eliot but then Eliot’s talking, “I know you want  _ everything. _ You’d probably let me just use your sweet little ass as much as I want if it was up to you. It wouldn’t even matter to you if I locked your dick up so I didn’t have to worry about you getting all over sensitive once you’ve come.” Quentin nods around the fingers in his mouth.  _ Yes. _ Yes he should do that. “See, that’s why your Daddy knows best, huh? I don’t wanna have my first time fucking your pretty little hole to be frantic and rough on you.” Quentin whimpers, Eliot keeps calling every part of him  _ little _ . His  _ sweet little dick. Perfect little ass. Pink little nipples. Tiny little waist. _ He’s starting to believe it. That he’s a delicate little creature. Yeah, he needs someone to be careful with him. “Once I  _ really saw _ you, I knew I had to take my time on you, angel. I’m a romantic like that.”

Eliot’s fingers pet over Quentin’s tongue and a possessive bolt of heat flashes through him thinking about the night of Eliot’s birthday. He sucks on Eliot’s clever fingers and opens his eyes. Eliot’s right there, the point of his tongue flicking over Quentin’s nipple. His chest is a fucking battlefield of marks and hickeys. Blotches of petal pink and garnet with broken capillaries. It’ll be all crewnecks for at least a week. But Quentin could  _ give a fuck _ in the face of Eliot Waugh and his disheveled hair, the wide smile on his face while he takes Quentin apart. Like Quentin doesn’t treasure a bruise as it fades away. He’ll take some pictures of these ones to. To go along with the folder on his phone he started with Margo.

“I-I want you  _ so _ bad.” Quentin tugs his face away, letting Eliot’s fingers slip out of his mouth and trail wetly over his cheek. His voice is raw as he confesses and Eliot’s pupils dilate like a cat’s, all huge and inky black. Ready to play with his food. “Please, just uh—take care of me. Whatever you want, Daddy.”

Eliot’s eyebrows raise, a touch condescending, like  _ of course. _

“It’ll be fun, baby.” Eliot says, ignoring Quentin. He pulls back, sits up on his knees to draw a line with a wet finger down Quentin’s sternum, over his stomach till his hand spans the skin right above the waistband of Quentin’s borrowed pajama pants, pressing down. Quentin feels like his hair is standing on end. “See, you're gonna feel me right  _ here. _ So deep it can be overwhelming, like too much. So Daddy’s gonna train you up to take this big dick like it’s  _ nothing.  _ I’ll pick you up some plugs to get you nice and stretched. It’ll take days, maybe even a  _ week. _ So when I finally—” he punctuates the words with a roll of his hips, the elephant in the room that  _ is _ Eliot’s massive wang slaps against Quentin’s thigh with a dull thud. “—slide all the way inside you there’s not a single worry in that pretty little head of yours that it’s too much for you. We’ll make sure you’re ready. No prep spell to stretch you out for my cock. Just good, old fashioned artisanal muggle foreplay for my boy. I want to feel for myself how relaxed and open you are for me. How’s that sound, baby?”

“I-I can just—” Quentin pants, trying for rational thought. “I can take it. It’s okay—Margo, she liked to. And I have toys and stuff. So you could jus—” He bites his lip and realizes his arms are sore from pulling on the rungs of Eliot’s bed frame. He needs Eliot to ground him, get under his skin and take over. “You—you could, El—Daddy. I can do it. Want you to fuck me now.”

“Nope. No way, sweetie.” Eliot shakes his head, popping the ‘p’. Quentin groans.

“I’d be s-so good for you. Promise.  _ El.”  _ But it’s useless because Eliot’s shaking his head fondly at Quentin like he thinks it’s  _ adorable _ Quentin’s trying to even argue with him about this. Especially when Quentin’s making succinct arguments that would have Elle Woods shaking in her Manolo’s.

“Color?”

Quentin rolls his back against the bed, feels a few vertebrae pop.  _ “So fucking green. _ But keep telling me no, okay?”

Eliot throws his head back and laughs. Quentin practically purrs when he leans back down and strokes him under the chin with the backs of a few fingers, kisses his stubbly cheek. “You’re like, outrageously my type, you know that?”

Quentin nods his head, “You’re like those outrageously expensive sheets Julia kept telling me to buy but I refused. Then she—she gave them to me for Christmas and they’re like all I sleep on.”

Which is a blissed out way of saying that Quentin 1) doesn’t always believe he deserves the best things 2) requires intervention from the women in his life to give him those things 3) once he’s found what works for him, he’s loyal to the ends of the earth.

“You put handmade linen sheets on your mattress  _ on the floor,  _ baby. Which we still need to fix.” Eliot shakes his head, amused. Eliot leans down and kisses him on the other cheek. Quentin trills at the little scratchy friction of Eliot’s stubble across his skin. He’d like to feel it everywhere, pace back and forth across his classroom during a lecture to enjoy the tingle of it on his inner thighs, all over his ass. He’d  _ really _ like Eliot to make him come after teasing him for so long. He whines and squirms under Eliot, tries to scooch himself down the bed until his arms are uncomfortably stretched and  _ fuck yes,  _ the hot flesh of Eliot’s dick is a jolt to his senses, resting on Quentin’s stomach like the  _ worst _ fucking tease. “Look at you. You’re so pretty for me. I bet you’re sweeter when you’re getting fucked.”

“You could find out!” Quentin exclaims. Eliot snorts, shaking his head. Like a cat, he butts his face against the underside of Quentin’s chin on his way back down his body and now Quentin’s stretched out tight, like a bow string from all his scooching. His chest aches in time with the thump of his heart, blood so close to the surface. “But like, I’ll do it. Whatever you want. But you  _ know _ you’re not—not, I’ve had sex before.”

“Have any of them been as big as me?” Eliot asks, eyebrow arched and ready to win this argument because Quentin shakes his head, ears ringing. He presses his torso to Quentin’s, thrusting his dick against Quentin’s stomach and the friction is  _ delicious.  _

Quentin’s so starved for stimulation that the head of Eliot’s dick glancing over his belly button makes him keen. Just the  _ sight _ of the purple head of Eliot’s cock blurting precome into the hair on Quentin’s stomach is pornographic.

“Not as um long. But I—” Eliot folds his arms over Quentin’s bruised chest and rests his head on them, blinking at Quentin while he waits for him to get it out. His hips slot back between Quentin’s legs, hiding that gorgeous dick from view. God, he’s so  _ lanky. _ His feet hang off the bed in Quentin’s house. “I have toys and stuff. One’s pretty thick.”

“Yeah? You like fucking yourself open on fake cock, sweetheart?” Eliot asks conversationally. A whine builds in the back of Quentin’s throat. He nods, wordlessly. Eliot idly tugs on one of Quentin’s oversensitive, puffy nipples, not hard or anything, but pleasure and pain tugs at his cock, still untouched and weeping between his legs. “Do you get yourself worked up fast or slow?”

“Slow,” Quentin breathes out in a puff of air.

“I don’t think so.” Eliot singsongs.  _ Fuck.  _ “Are you lying to get what you want?” Quentin’s sullen pout is enough of an answer for Eliot, who chuckles and lazily thrusts his dick against the bed, the head poking Quentin’s drawn up balls over and over and it’s addictive but  _ not enough. _ “See, I wanna fuck you just like this, face to face so I can watch you just melt away, Q. We could have had this over and done with at Margo’s with you all strung out and subspacey and I  _ will _ take you like that, too. Fast, rough, however I want. But not the first time.  _ Our  _ first time, I wanna treat you like a  _ treasure.  _ Like you’re mine. And I take care of everything that belongs to me, don’t I baby?”

Quentin manages to gasp something resembling ‘yes’ among the ringing in his ears, the low simmering heat all over. He’s so fucking turned on and sensitive that even Eliot’s words go straight to his dick. The possessiveness is just pounding all these buttons he never knew he had. He’s suddenly so grateful that they’re doing this by themselves, that Eliot had to foresight to wait to fuck him when Quentin would have taken everything Eliot and Margo gave him that night. 

Eliot on top of him and smiling while he thrusts between Quentin’s legs is  _ just for Quentin  _ to see.

“Good, because one day you’re gonna get used to my big fat cock. I’ll be able to whisper a few words, finger some lube into my baby’s sweet little hole and slide inside whenever I damn well please. And I bet you’re the kind of boy who wants to get fucked all the time.” Eliot’s voice is conversational, but his hips roll faster against the bed between Quentin’s legs. Eliot’s like an erotic weighted blanket resting on top of him. “So I want to think about you this week in class in your little tweed jacket, sitting on a secret in your office. Day after day. Stretching you out wider and wider. Letting me come to you every night to see if you’re ready or not. You’ll bend over the back of your couch and show me how open you are. Show me your sweet little asshole, how relaxed it gets day after day. I can be patient enough for both of us, because I think you’ll try to convince me you’re ready before you really are. But Daddy knows best. I want you gaping open before I fuck you.”

Impossibly, Quentin comes right then. Ears ringing. Mouth falling open on a silent gasp. He comes right in his pants with Eliot laying on top of him, his face splitting into a wild grin while wave after wave of pleasure rolls through Quentin, hot come soaking through the silk of his pants. He feels in the soles of his feet, the tortured peaks of his nipples.

“Are you  _ serious?”  _ Eliot’s voice cuts through the white noise in Quentin’s brain. “Did you just fucking—” and Quentin hisses and jolts when Eliot’s hand slips between their bodies and plunges into the front of Quentin’s pants and the  _ first time _ Eliot’s touching his dick is when Quentin’s oversensitive and  _ just came untouched from Eliot talking to him. _ “Holy  _ fucking _ — _ baby.  _ Q, that’s so hot. Lemme just, lemme just touch you a little more, okay?”

Quentin’s options are pretty limited to muttering Eliot’s name and trying to breathe through the hyperintense sensation of his nerves firing off overstimulated pleasure. It sends his hips jerking under Eliot’s hips and tears leak out of his eyes and down into his hairline while Eliot’s fucking  _ cooing _ about Quentin’s  _ “Sweet little dick,”  _ how he’s  _ “Daddy’s perfect, sluttly mess.” _ Eliot’s hand is so big he’s got the whole thing wrapped up, thumb circling the crown of Quentin’s dick over and over while Quentin loses all touch with reality. Quentin’s come is just all over the place, making a slick sound whenever Eliot moves his hand.

Eliot doesn’t let him take a break, not for a breath that isn’t panting or to give his pounding heart a rest. “I wanna see you come again, come on, sweetheart. Breath through it. You can do this. You’re twitching in my hand, baby.” Eliot’s voice floats in one of Quentin’s ears and out the other. His chest aches. He can’t  _ move _ or do anything but float and let out long whines at the ministrations of Eliot’s hands on him. Eliot sits back on his heels, Quentin immediately missing the weight of his body, but Eliot’s makes up for it with the intensity of his gaze, staring down at Quentin. He pulls Quentin’s dick out from under his pajamas, the elastic waistband gets caught under Quentin’s balls, pushing them forward. “Fuck, baby. You’re so gorgeous like this. Just a precious thing, aren’t you?” In his right mind, Quentin would say  _ likewise _ or babble about Eliot’s chest hair _. _ Eliot’s flushed and sweating, looks so big and strong on top of Quentin, like he would do  _ anything _ for him _. _ “What do you want, Q? How can I make you come again? Tell Daddy, sweetheart.”

The filter between Quentin’s brain and his mouth’s been obliterated.

It takes a great big, hitching breath for Quentin to get enough air to speak the words, and  _ then _ they still come out a garbled mess because he’s sobbing. “P-please, Daddy. My t—” Quentin clamps his eyes closed. “My tits. Play with m-my tits. And harder?”

“Look at me, baby.” Eliot commands softly, Quentin’s eyes flick open immediately. “That’s so good, Q. You’re so good. Show me, huh? Show me how you want me to touch your sweet tits. Okay? Daddy’s hands are busy. I wanna look at you.” Quentin’s eyes cross at the steady motion of Eliot’s hand over Quentin’s dick, he’s totally unprepared for the bolt of heat that is Eliot spitting into his other hand to stroke his own massive cock. “Go on. Touch yourself. You can make it hurt, if you need. Know you like that. You’re a little bit of a slut for pain, baby.” Eliot urges Quentin to let go of the bars, reach down to his own chest.

Quentin’s lower lip trembles because apparently tweaking his nipples hard on his own is more embarrassing than begging Daddy to do it for him, even when Eliot showers praise on him. His shoulders ache from the change in position but he can ignore that. Eliot’s dick is just  _ huge.  _ The strokes Eliot gives himself to go from the base to the head are comically longer than the small up and down motion of his hand on Quentin’s own dick.  _ Fuck. _

“You’re so big.” Quentin gasps, voice full of wonder. Teetering on the edge of something really huge. Feeling  _ small.  _ Belly up and exposed like an animal. Jesus, he needs Eliot here taking care of him so much it hurts. “I don’t think it’ll fit though. I don’t think I can—”

The words tumble out of his mouth because he can hold them tightly in his brain, funnel them into the fantasy unraveling in his mind where Eliot’s the  _ first.  _ Where he teaches Quentin  _ everything. _

Eliot’s face turns tender. Eyebrows coming together in concern and he shakes his head, shushing Quentin. “You can. I know you can, baby.” Quentin whines, tugging on his nipples to feel the golden line of pain and pleasure that radiates through the core of him. And Eliot’s voice is so gentle and sweet while Quentin torments himself. “We’ll take it so slowly. You don’t have to worry about a thing. Daddy’s gonna take care of you.”

“Mmm, Daddy,” Quentin moans. “‘M gonna—”

It’s about all he can muster to warn Eliot before his balls draw up so suddenly that there’s just as much torment as there is relief. Through watering eyes, Quentin watches a couple blurts of come erupt out of the head of his dick. Eliot’s saying, “There you go, doesn’t that feel better? Get it all out, baby. You’re so good,” and licking Quentin’s come off his own fingers once he’s just twitching, still sniffling back tears. “You’re okay, Q. Do you want my come?”

Quentin nods, whining and only realizes his hands are still pressing into the bruises all over his chest when Eliot gently pulls his hands away, soothing him with endearments. Quentin’s hands fall limply to the bed. Eliot shuffles up Quentin’s body, straddling his chest. 

“I’m gonna come,” Eliot tells him, the purple head of his cock so close that if he had the muscle control, Quentin could raise his head off the pillow and get a taste of it. But he can’t. So he just has to lay there and moan. “Where do you want it, sweetie?” Eliot chuckles warmly when Quentin just opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, an open invitation. “Aww baby, you read my mind. Close your eyes, alright. Fuck—you’re so pretty.”

Quentin pants, heart beating in time with the rapid sound of Eliot’s hand jacking his dick, wet with spit and precome. Eliot lets out a rough growl and  _ fuck,  _ the first rope of hot come splatters across Quentin’s chin and mouth. Followed by more and more landing all over him. Flecks cover his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his hair and a few drops land on Quentin’s fluttering eyelashes. The salty taste of Eliot’s come explodes on Quentin’s tongue, has him moaning for more. He hears Eliot panting and then there’s his thumbs tenderly wiping Quentin’s eye, holding the finger to Quentin’s lips. 

He drifts for a long time. Through Eliot climbing off his chest and bundling Quentin into his arms, feeding him little bits of come from his face until it’s all gone and then Eliot kisses him on the forehead, letting Quentin rest his face in the hollow of his throat for a while. 

Miraculously, Eliot gets Quentin into his shower and sets him on the bench just outside the hot spray of the water. Quentin leans against the tiled wall, a dopey smile on his face, chest full of cotton candy with affection while Eliot kneels down on the floor and cleans him off with a soapy washcloth. Quentin can’t help but wonder how he’s been missing out on this for so long. The gentle way Eliot picks up each of Quentin’s feet and skims the cloth over his legs. His focused gaze and shushing voice when Quentin gets fidgety at the touch of the cloth over his sensitive soft dick while Eliot cleans the come off of him.

“How are you feeling, baby?” Eliot asks later, once Quentin’s been toweled off and Eliot’s let him back into bed after changing the sheets.

“Good, Daddy.” Quentin answers, head resting on Eliot’s chest so he can’t see his face. But his fingers comb through Quentin’s hair and tuck it behind his ear over and over. “Tired. But good.”

“That’s okay. You’re still pretty out of it, huh?”

Quentin nods, remembers that words are better. Margo made sure he knew that early on. “It takes a while. Sometimes.” Shifting to get a look up at Eliot, Quentin worries his lip. “That’s—that’s okay?”

Eliot’s eyes widen and he nods, “Of course. I’m happy to have my sweet boy for as long as you’ll let me.”

Quentin hums and rolls back over, blushing. It's too much to look at Eliot right now. 

He comes back to himself after a while, in the low light of Eliot’s bedroom, becomes more aware of his body again. The ache of his chest and shoulders. The heat of the shower’s done a lot of good, though. He must stir against Eliot enough to get his attention.

“Sorry,” Quentin mutters, extricating himself enough to get his head on the pillow next to Eliot’s. They’re locked together, gloriously naked. One of Eliot’s legs between Quentin’s with an arm thrown around his waist. Quentin’s pretty sure he’s been petting Eliot’s chest hair like a kitten for the better part of an hour. “But I really needed that.”

“Same.” Eliot nods and kisses him with a mouth that’s minty with toothpaste. Did Quentin brush his teeth? He must have. He remembers Eliot putting the toothpaste on the brush for him and feeling weak kneed about it. “I shouldn’t have taken things that far without working out a scene with you.”

“It’s okay.” Quentin shakes his head. “I loved all of it. For harder stuff, like bondage or um, impact stuff, yeah. Gimme a heads up or we’ll negotiate ahead of time because I’m  _ a lot _ after. But I mean, if I’m not down for good old fashioned overstimulation and some dirty talk, I’ll let you know pronto. Cool?”

“You are a  _ fascinating  _ creature.” Eliot tells him, a smile making little lines deepen around his eyes.

“And we’re _ totally _ gonna do the training thing, with the plugs,” Quentin tells Eliot straight up. “I  _ hate _ waiting, but the idea of you like  _ inspecting me _ to make sure I’m ready is very hot.” Quentin’s heart begins to pump faster while he catalogs the way Eliot’s pupils dilate. They’re both  _ very _ into this. “But we should see what I have before we go like dropping a bunch of cash on plugs. Will I be allowed to come  _ or _ — _ ” _ Quentin lets the end of the sentence hang like a question, waiting for Eliot to pick up the rest and make the decision for him.

“No,” Eliot says, because he’s  _ perfect.  _ “I think you’re gonna wait till I’m all the way inside you until you get to come for me. How about that?” Quentin nods, ears ringing. “What about putting a cage on you so you and I both know you’re off the hook for slip ups? No need to worry about coming because you can’t help yourself.”

Quentin’s brain shorts out, “That I—Um, okay. Yes. Mmm hmm. Cool. Totally. That’s a— _ alrightly.” _

_ “What the fuck just happened?” _ Eliot snorts out a laugh and rolls on top of Quentin, kissing him senseless.

They negotiate in the morning over a French press and waffles.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I adore comments more than you can imagine!


End file.
